Los Angeles. They call it the City of Angels, the Home of Opportunity and New Beginnings. I call it home.

Monday through Friday you’ll find me at Dockside Imports, working the phones and selling whatever HQ sent over on those massive container ships. Furniture, appliances, toys, gadgets, and gizmos of every shape and size. I was damn good at it, and they paid me handsomely for it. After a long day fighting LA traffic in my beloved 1967 Mustang Fastback, I’d come home to my wife Abigail and my son Johnny Jr. It was a good life. An honest life. One I didn’t truly deserve.

It hadn’t always been like this.

Thirty-six years ago I was crashing on couches in Chicago, peddling drugs and stealing cars, looking for any way out of a life where the legal options had all dried up. One night in ’71 I tried to carjack a blonde bombshell and found out the hard way why you never bring a gun to a knife fight. She had me dead to rights, knife to my throat, glowing red eyes staring down like a predator ready to watch the light leave my body. She told me she was an assassin. I had every reason to believe her.

But she spared me.

She locked me in the trunk of this very Mustang, and after she grabbed a certain famous friend, I became an involuntary passenger on the road trip of a lifetime. Chicago to Ontario along Route 66. Not that I saw much of it from inside the trunk.

The blonde’s name sits on the tip of my tongue even now, but it never quite comes out. Old age, I tell myself. Sometimes I wonder if that’s all it is.

Her friend was Stephanie McClaire, the world-famous, raven-haired, immortal motorsports mercenary. She raced wherever and whenever she pleased. Showing up to ruin championship battles and collect trophies and prize money with zero allegiance to any series or manufacturer. One weekend France in a Formula 1 car, the next Alabama in a NASCAR, then Japan for a rally. No rhyme or reason. Just an unstoppable love for the sport and outlaw’s raw spirit to cause chaos.

I got my first real look at her in Ontario that same year at the 1971 California 500. She wheeled an ill-handling McLaren around the track at over 187 mph like it was nothing. No practice. No warm-up. Just stepped in and drove the wheels off a car the actual driver refused to pilot the next day. Then she collected her paycheck and wandered off looking for the next adventure.

That was Stephanie McClaire in a nutshell: an immortal lunatic with a need for speed and a .357 in her boot.

Her and the blonde kidnapped me. They could have left me for dead in the desert. God knows I deserved it, but McClaire saw something worth saving. She saw a tool to help her friend learn forgiveness, and a man who might still deserve a second chance. When the road trip ended and it was time for her to fly home, she tossed me the keys to the Mustang and made me a promise.

“When I need your help one day in the future, I expect you to be there.”

That debt had hung in my soul ever since. Every good thing that came after, the wife, the son, the job, the honest life, existed because of that promise. I told myself every single morning:

“As long as my heart is still beating, I’ll help. Whatever it takes.”

It was my way of giving thanks. An acknowledgment that none of it would have mattered if I hadn’t met them that night.

Turning the key in the deadlock that evening, the familiar clunk was instantly drowned out by the happiest sound in my world.

“Daddy’s home!”

I swung the door open and scooped my son into my arms.

“How was school, Jr?”

“We learned about writing sentences, and animals, and math, and I got to paint a flower!” he rattled off, all childhood innocence and energy. It was a privilege I never had. When I was seven I watched my father get shot during a robbery gone wrong. After that, school was a luxury I couldn’t afford.

“Welcome home, honey,” Abigail said, appearing from the kitchen with a smile that still made my chest tight after all these years. If McClaire and the blonde were the two most beautiful women I’d ever met, Abigail was a very strong third. I’d never been so happy to finish on the podium.

After a welcome-home kiss we moved to the kitchen where dinner was already on the stove. Abby worked from home buying and selling on eBay, which let her be a full-time mom. I was grateful for that. It meant Jr always had someone to talk to when something was on his mind… no matter how silly.

“Dad, did you know lions don’t actually live in the jungle? They live in Africa, in a great big desert!”

“He’s been going on about animals all day,” Abby explained. 

“Substitute teacher let them watch Animal Planet the whole time.”

“Sounds like a fun day,” I said, noticing the pile of mail on the corner of the table. One envelope stood out, a larger yellow one addressed to me with no return address. I picked it up and gave it a shake.

“Honey, where did this come from?”

“Mailman, same as everything else. Why? Junk mail?”

“I… don’t know.” I tore it open.

Four things slid out: three tickets and a single sheet of paper. My eyes went wide the second I saw the big “77” logo at the top.

What’s up, Roadkill? Long time no see.

Heard you’re doing pretty well for yourself these days. I’m amazed you kept that Mustang running for thirty-six years. Word is you’ve got a kiddo now too! Hopefully that wasn’t a lie. We’re racing at Long Beach this weekend.

I need you to come. I’ve got a favor to ask.

Bring your family if you can. It’ll be a good time, and I’d like to meet them.

—Stephanie McClaire

My brain short-circuited.

I sat there staring at the letter while my pulse hammered in my ears. After thirty-six years, the debt was finally being called.

“Honey, are you working this weekend?” I asked Abby.

“Yeah, unfortunately. I’ve got a ton of MP3 players to ship. Why?”

“An old friend just sent us tickets to the Long Beach Grand Prix. Pit passes, by the looks of it. I was thinking of taking Jr.”

“Race cars?!” Jr’s eyes lit up like Christmas morning. 

“Can we go? Please, please, please?”

Abby looked between the tickets and me, one eyebrow raised. 

“Wait, really? Who exactly is this ‘old friend’?” I leaned back in the chair and let out a shaky laugh.

 “A race car driver who once kidnapped me. Her name’s Stephanie McClaire.”

Abby stared at me for a long second, then sighed and rubbed her temples. 

“You’re serious?”

“Dead serious. She’s the reason I’m here at all. I owe her… more than I can ever explain.”

“Mom, please. Dad never takes me anywhere cool!” Jr was practically vibrating. 

Abby looked at our son’s hopeful face, then at me. I could see the war behind her eyes, worry, trust, the memory of all the years I’d spent proving I was a different man now.

“Fine,” she said at last. 

“But just this weekend. And you two better come back in one piece.”

Jr whooped and ran to his room to pack his “lucky” toy car. Abby stepped closer and lowered her voice.

“Johnny… this woman really kidnapped you?”

“She saved me,” I said quietly. 

“In the only way that mattered. I have to go.” Abby searched my face, then nodded once. 

“Then go. But come home to me.”

That night I lay awake long after everyone else was asleep, staring at the ceiling and tracing the faint scar on my neck. The promise I’d made to myself every morning for thirty-six years had finally caught up with me.